Leslie's Early Years: Toward Healing a Soul
by FantasyIslander65
Summary: Leslie begins to adjust to her new home and meets new friends. First in the 'Early Years' series; these fall chronologically in between 'Trial by Fire' and 'Homecoming' in the sequence of stories.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _The first in a series of tales that provide a little extra backstory for Leslie. This and the next half-dozen stories all take place between the stories_ Trial by Fire _and_ Homecoming/Stowaway _which were posted under the "MagicSwede1965" pen name. (Incidentally, after _Trial by Fire _was posted, I began printing the assorted stories and turning them into my own private books; and because I wanted to transcribe my favorite episodes—and some of them had aired before Leslie supposedly came to the island—I moved the date of her arrival back a year. So if you reread_ Trial by Fire, _just pretend the date says 1979 instead of 1980…!)  
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§ § § -- February 16, 1979

Tattoo was a kindhearted man; and when he noticed Leslie's pensive expression as she and Roarke came in the door, he stopped what he was doing to offer her an ear. "Something on your mind?" he asked Leslie, while Roarke was diverted by the ringing telephone.

Leslie paused and eyed him, looking undecided, as if she wasn't sure whether she felt comfortable enough to confide in him. Finally she asked a little plaintively, "Do I have to start school right away? Like tomorrow? I don't know if I'm ready."

Tattoo studied her in surprise. "Well, the boss might let you wait a couple of days, since you've just arrived here and spent the whole weekend trying to break that curse on your family. And you really haven't had any time to move in here yet."

"I hope so," Leslie admitted. "I don't have any clothes that would really be suitable for school anyway. And that reminds me…my duffel is still in that bungalow." She bit her lip in sudden anxiety. "I'll have to find a way to pay for all the damage that fire caused, won't I?"

Tattoo actually laughed, evoking a shocked look from Leslie. "I think you're worrying too much, Leslie. It's not the first time a bungalow's caught fire because of a fantasy, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Think about it—would you rather live with a curse the rest of your life just because some fire damage was done to a bungalow?" She reddened sheepishly, and he grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Pretty silly, right?"

Leslie shrugged self-consciously. "I guess it is. Do you think Mr. Roarke'll see it that way though?" Doubt gleamed out of her eyes, and Tattoo regarded her in silence for a minute or two, wondering what lay behind her fear and uncertainty beyond the still-recent loss of her family and her transition to Fantasy Island.

"Don't worry, Leslie," he finally said, certain the words were lame and clichéd but having no better reassurance for her. It would take time for her to settle in and learn to trust him and Roarke enough to open up and let them help her. "The boss won't be mad at you, because it wasn't your fault. You've broken your family's curse, and that's what really matters, you know. Go on back and get your bag before it gets too dark, okay?"

She nodded and turned away, leaving the house with her head hanging, plainly in doubt of his words. Tattoo watched her go and shook his head to himself, then grew aware that Roarke had been discoursing on the phone at some length by now. He shifted his attention to the conversation, wondering who could have managed to trap his boss on the line for so long.

"Oh, I understand that you mean well," Roarke said presently, "but I suspect she isn't quite ready yet. She has barely arrived here and just gone through a harrowing weekend, and hasn't even chosen a room for herself. Incidentally, how exactly did you find out about all this?" Roarke listened for a moment, then smiled wryly. "Ah, I see." That was when he noticed Tattoo watching. "One moment, please. Do you need something, Tattoo?"

"Who's been bending your ear all this time?" Tattoo inquired.

Roarke's mouth quirked again with a half-smile. "The newspaper," he said, taking care to cover the mouthpiece of the receiver with one hand before he spoke. "It appears that we have an extremely efficient grapevine on the island. They have heard that Leslie is to live with me, and want to run a story about it."

"_Zut alors,"_ said Tattoo, rolling his eyes. "She's in no shape to withstand some nosy reporter asking stupid questions. She's already dealing with too much as it is."

Interest leaped to life in Roarke's gaze. "Indeed?" he prompted.

Tattoo nodded firmly. "She'd probably…" Then he hesitated as an idea occurred to him, and he reconsidered. "Wait a minute. If we let the newspaper tell her story, she might not have people all over the island asking her questions…not to mention kids in school. How many times would you want to tell people you watched your family die in a horrible fire and couldn't do anything about it? It might not really be anyone's business, but you know human nature. People like to ask questions about things they have no real right to know about. You and I can be there to make sure the reporter doesn't pry too much, and try to control how he tells the story. You know, not let him make it too sensational."

Roarke mulled this over briefly, then smiled a little. "You have a very good point, my friend," he said warmly. "Perhaps it's not as ill-advised as I was inclined to believe. Very well, as long as Leslie doesn't mind, we'll go through with it." He got back on the line and made the arrangements, stressing that the whole thing was predicated on Leslie's agreement to be interviewed. "I will notify you as soon as she decides," he said, and with that made his farewells and hung up.

"I sure _hope_ she won't mind," Tattoo remarked.

The door opened just as he started to speak, and Leslie came in with her duffel bag. "Who won't mind what?" she asked.

Roarke smiled once more. "The _Fantasy Island Chronicle_, our sole newspaper, has requested an interview with you. Somehow they heard that I have managed to acquire a ward, and they think it would make a good story. I told them they might do so, pending your agreement."

Leslie blinked in amazement. "Why on earth would anyone be interested in what happened to me? Or is it just because it involves you?" She directed this last at Roarke.

"One thing I am afraid you will have to learn to live with," Roarke said with a sigh, "is the fact that, being owner and chief magistrate of Fantasy Island—not to mention island lord mayor and final authority—I bear a particular notoriety among the islanders. A certain amount of that will transfer to you, since I am your guardian and you will be living here with me. Tattoo suffers the same kind of attention, since he is my assistant and essentially second in command here." He caught Tattoo's puzzled look and turned to him curiously. "What's wrong, my friend?"

"Who said I _suffer_ from attention like that?" Tattoo asked in genuine surprise. "I kinda like it myself."

Leslie giggled, attracting both Roarke's and Tattoo's attention and evoking warm smiles from them simultaneously. Playing along, Roarke gave an exaggerated sigh, directed his gaze to the ceiling and said, "All right, then, perhaps Tattoo doesn't necessarily _suffer_ the attention. Come to think of it, I believe he takes all possible advantage of it…not that it is necessarily beneficial." Tattoo made a disgruntled face and Leslie laughed; Roarke, smiling broadly, steered the conversation back on course. "At any rate, it's Tattoo's belief that, having once told your story to the newspaper, you may be spared constant questioning each time you meet someone new. As Tattoo has noted, people have a way of prying into affairs that don't concern them, generally out of curiosity. An interview would satisfy said curiosity and perhaps allow you to go about the business of making a place for yourself here, both at home and at school."

Leslie winced when he said the word "school"; Roarke and Tattoo both noticed and looked at each other, but no one pursued the topic. She stood giving careful consideration to the idea of talking to the newspaper, and finally looked up with a slight frown. "I guess it'd be okay…except maybe…" Roarke waited, his expression encouraging her to continue, but she ultimately shied away from the subject. "All right, I guess so. When do they want to have the interview?"

"Undoubtedly as soon as we allow it," Roarke said dryly. "Let me call them back and set it up, and then it's time for you to choose a room for yourself."

The interview was set for about two the next afternoon, to Leslie's surprise. When Roarke hung up, he turned to her and said, "I realize you have just had quite an exhausting weekend, and you have been through enough upheaval for the moment. I see no harm in putting off enrolling you in school until a week from tomorrow, especially since we will need a chance to take you shopping for suitable school clothing."

Leslie was so relieved that in spite of her best intentions, it showed on her face, and Roarke chuckled softly. "Come along and see the rooms upstairs, child."

To the right of the study as one faced it from the foyer, there was a set of dark, highly polished wooden stairs leading to the second floor, and a closed door stood just at the foot of the steps. "What's that room?" Leslie asked, pointing at the door.

"The boss uses it sometimes to start off fantasies," Tattoo told her as the three started to climb the steps. "Especially when it's a time-travel fantasy."

Leslie gasped and turned so sharply to stare at Roarke that she nearly missed one step, and Roarke had to catch her arm to prevent a tumble. "You can send people back in time, Mr. Roarke? Do you do it a lot?"

"It's not uncommon," Roarke said indulgently. "Perhaps once or twice a month, someone wishes to see the past. There will be time later for you to ask questions, young lady. The first order of business is giving you a room of your own."

At the top of the steps they paused in a short hallway. To the right was another closed door, which Roarke informed Leslie was his own room; directly across from the top of the stairway was a bathroom, with a linen closet to the immediate right of its doorway. At the other end of the hall from Roarke's room, and at their left, were the two vacant rooms from which Leslie was to choose. "This one first, perhaps," Roarke said, opening the door to the room at their left. Leslie tentatively poked her head inside and stared in wonder.

This room was the one housed inside the dormer that was visible from the lane that ran past the house. It gave Leslie a sense of her native New England, with its sloping ceiling and cozy feel. It was painted sunshine yellow and boasted wall-to-wall carpeting built-in bookshelves in the back right corner, a spacious closet and a window seat in the dormer. Beneath the seat were built-in drawers. The only furniture was a full-size canopy bed that needed making up. "This one's really pretty," Leslie said appreciatively.

"It's not very large," Tattoo said. "You might want the other room instead."

They moved down to the room at the left end of the hallway; this one had a fairly high ceiling, but was actually a little smaller than the dormer room. On the far end was a glass door that led to a screened-in porch, from which Leslie could just see a set of stairs descending into the clearing at the side of the house. Along with this door, there was a tiny round window fitted with stained glass. There was no furniture in here at all, although there were a few boxes stacked along one wall. Leslie looked around, bit her lip thoughtfully and turned back to Roarke. "I like the first room," she said decisively.

"Then it's yours," Roarke told her and squeezed her shoulder. "It's nearly dinnertime, and Mariki should still be here. I'll see to it that she prepares the bed for you."

"Mariki's the housemaid," Tattoo explained to Leslie. "The boss is thinking of taking her on as the cook, too, after our current one retires. She's a little touchy sometimes, but she's a very good worker. She'll like you."

Leslie dropped her duffel bag just inside the doorway of her new bedroom and followed Roarke and Tattoo down the stairs again; this time they continued out onto the veranda, where a table had been set up. It was full dark outside, but there was enough moonlight to lend the scene an enchanted aura. The table was situated at a corner of the porch that was rounded off gazebo-style underneath a slightly elevated ceiling; over their heads a fan rotated lazily, and three attached lights with ornate etched-glass globes case a cheery glow on their repast. The three took seats and the cook brought out a cart that bore a number of covered trays.

Most of the conversation throughout supper consisted of business talk from Roarke and Tattoo; Leslie, too new to be able to follow any of it just yet, simply listened while she ate and tried to remember as much as possible of what her new guardian and his assistant spoke of. Knowing what she did about her new home, she wanted to be part of the wonderful, fascinating business of making dreams come to life; but she was so uncertain, felt so out of place, that she dared not broach the subject. Roarke still intimidated her, even though she was growing to like him; Tattoo, while more approachable, made her feel much the same. Eventually Leslie tuned out the conversation without realizing it, losing herself in self-doubt, a little fear, and a lot of apprehension about the immediate future.

"Dessert, anyone?" inquired a voice, and Leslie was jolted out of her uneasy reverie by the sight of the cook with her cart. She saw several tempting choices, but held back all the same, waiting for Roarke or Tattoo to speak first.

"Sorry, not this evening," Tattoo said. "I guess I've eaten enough. Boss, do you want me to start the wheels rolling on getting that bungalow repaired, or wait till tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is soon enough," Roarke said. "The damage isn't overwhelming, so we may be able to use it as soon as next weekend." To the cook he added, "Would there be any _flan_ this evening?"

"Yes, indeed, Mr. Roarke," the cook replied and produced a bowl from the cart, setting it in front of Roarke.

"Thank you," said Roarke, turning to Leslie. "And what about you, then?"

Leslie sat up as straight as she could in her chair, trying to see everything on the cart. "Is that cheesecake on the end?" she asked hopefully, in a small voice.

"It certainly is!" the cook said. "Is that your choice?" Leslie nodded, and the cook cheerfully presented her with a plate.

"By the way, this is our cook, Mana'olana," Roarke told her. "Mana'olana, my new ward, Leslie Hamilton. She arrived just yesterday morning."

"Welcome to the island, Leslie," the cook said with a broad smile. She was older, Leslie saw now, and considerably overweight; she looked like someone's beloved grandmother. She smiled shyly back.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Tattoo excused himself and left the table while Mana'olana wheeled her cart back to the kitchen, leaving Leslie alone at the table with her guardian. A nervous lump popped into life in her stomach, but she ate the delicious cheesecake anyway, not wanting to waste it.

Unable to stand it, she finally slanted a cautious glance at Roarke. "Are you sure that bungalow can be fixed?" she asked in a tiny voice.

Roarke gave her a glance of sudden surprise. "Of course it can, Leslie," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"I…I'll help if I can," she said, pushing the words out through her growing timidity. "I know I can't do very much, but at least I could paint or something."

Roarke stopped eating and turned in his chair enough to face her. His face was full of amused incredulity, and his dark eyes twinkled. "Don't tell me that you have been worrying about that bungalow all evening!"

Her face grew hot and she hunched her shoulders, barely able to meet his gaze now. "Well, I…" she mumbled and finally hung her head, feeling thoroughly stupid.

Roarke carefully stifled a laugh and lay a hand over hers. "There is absolutely no need for you to trouble yourself over it," he said, kindly but firmly. "The damage was not your fault; indeed, if it hadn't been for that fire, you would still be under the weight of that curse. We have had bungalow fires before in the course of granting fantasies, and I dare say there are many more such fires in the future. We have an excellent repair crew who know exactly what to do and how to get it done in the shortest time possible. And if it's money you're worried about, let me assure you that expenses are carefully calculated to cover precisely this sort of contingency." He slipped two fingers under her chin and lifted her head so that she was forced to look up at him. "Your concerns lie in other directions, my child, and I suggest you turn your mind to those. After all, you need to think about what sort of clothes you would like for school; and you must be ready to learn some of the fundamentals of this business if you're truly interested in helping Tattoo and me."

Her face was full of such shock that he stopped trying to reassure her and simply stared, all levity fading from his features. "It…doesn't _matter?"_ she finally whispered, clearly stunned. "All that damage, and you're not mad?"

"Of course not," Roarke said. "As I have already told you, it wasn't your fault."

Leslie blinked at him in disbelief. "Wow," she said without thinking, partly to him and partly to herself, "you sure aren't like my stupid father…" She caught herself short, flashed him one horrified glance and sprang to her feet fast enough that her chair would have overturned if the porch railing hadn't been there to stop it. "Excuse me," she gasped and fled the veranda in a panic.

Roarke let her go, amazement and concern fighting for precedence within him. The memory of Shannon Hamilton's fantasy returned once more, reminding him of the final vision during which he had realized the girl was afraid of her father. But there was more to it than fear, he understood now. He knew Leslie didn't yet feel comfortable enough to talk freely with him; but one day soon, she would have to open up if she was to heal completely from her emotional wounds.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- February 17, 1979

The _Fantasy Island Chronicle_ sent out a female reporter and a male photographer the next afternoon and took a good while about conducting their interview. Both Roarke and Tattoo were present for the occasion and for the most part simply looked on, letting Leslie handle the interviewing process as she saw fit. With some reluctance and a little help from Roarke, she told the story of being orphaned and of how she had become Fantasy Island's newest resident. Having obtained the answer to her biggest question, the reporter fell back on inane questions such as "How do you like Fantasy Island?" and "Are you getting along with Mr. Roarke?" For her part, Leslie seemed to have talked herself out and provided the expected answers, without embellishing on them.

Then the reporter inquired, "What about school?"

"I will take her next week and enroll her in classes," Roarke said before Leslie could think of a reply. "She isn't quite ready to begin at this point, since this is only her third day on the island. I have also sent for the transcripts of her school records from Connecticut and California, and once those have arrived, I will see that the school receives them."

"Do you think you'll make friends?" the reporter asked Leslie.

She unwittingly took on an anxious look and said softly, "I hope so. I really would like to have friends my own age here." She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked down at her hands, folded in her lap with the fingers tightly interlaced.

"As you can see, she is understandably apprehensive," Roarke said. "It will take some time for her to adjust and to recover from her losses, and it's my hope that she will be made to feel welcome here, since this is her home now."

"I can sympathize, believe me," the reporter remarked, grinning. "Okay, then, how about a photo, and then we'll call it a wrap. Thank you, all three, for your time."

"When will this be in the paper?" Tattoo asked.

"It'll be in tomorrow's edition," the reporter said. "Maybe you should start a scrapbook, Leslie, and that can be your first entry." She and the photographer chuckled; Leslie gave a strained little smile, and Tattoo and Roarke eyed the reporter oddly enough that she abruptly covered her amusement with a nervous cough. "Right. Thank you again."

When they had left, Leslie sighed. "I guess I'm going to look pretty stupid in the paper tomorrow," she remarked glumly. "She sure asked some silly questions."

"That's not your fault," Tattoo said. "Don't worry about it now; it's done and over with. You did a good job telling your story." He patted her arm, then turned to Roarke. "So what's next on the agenda, boss?"

"Well, Leslie has had the tour of the bungalows and has already been to the pool." Roarke reflected. "And we had lunch at the hotel while you were attending to some errands. Perhaps the rest can wait till tomorrow."

"What about the rest of the house?" Tattoo asked.

"Ah, yes," Roarke said. "Come along, Leslie." She got up and followed him along to the kitchen, which turned out to be huge and spacious with the latest appliances, including an enormous stainless-steel refrigerator. The staff working therein greeted Leslie warmly and wished her happiness in her new home.

Going back up the hallway toward Roarke's study, they paused in front of a closed door. Roarke opened it to reveal a spiral stairway at one side of what turned out to be a small dining room. "That goes up to the bell tower," he explained, "and also down to the cellar. But…" Here he eyed Leslie so sternly that she backed up a step. "No one is allowed down there except for myself, so I must warn you to stay away from the cellar. It contains the makings of potions for fantasies, and should any inexperienced person try his or her hand at it, the consequences can be disastrous. You have the run of the house, except for the cellar…am I clear?" Frightened by his intensity, Leslie nodded rapidly.

"Good," Roarke said. "I believe that will be all for today, then. Tomorrow I think we'll take a shopping trip and get you ready to begin school next week."

The week slipped by without incident; Leslie accompanied Tattoo on some of his rounds during the next few days, getting a good idea of just what his job entailed. That first day, Tattoo, having taken in her reaction when Roarke warned her against going into the cellar, tried to reassure her. "I know the boss came across as forbidding, but he just wanted to make sure you knew he's serious. Don't let him scare you—he isn't trying to do that."

Leslie only shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't do anything like that anyway. I'm too afraid of getting in trouble. I told you he'd see me only as a nuisance. If he didn't, he wouldn't think he had to give me such a strong warning."

"That's not it at all, Leslie," Tattoo protested, then sighed and gave up. "But I guess you'll have to learn for yourself. Come on, we have to get over to the restaurant."

§ § § -- February 24, 1979

Leslie's weekend had been quiet; Roarke and Tattoo had both been busy with the fantasies, and since she had yet to meet anyone her own age, she was at loose ends all day Saturday and Sunday. This, unfortunately, gave her a chance to fret about starting school on Monday, so that by the time she and Roarke were on their way to the junior high where she was to be enrolled in the eighth grade, she was a nervous wreck. She had refused breakfast and barely said a word all morning thus far.

Roarke understood her apprehension, but his patience had begun to erode just a little. "Leslie, don't blow the situation out of proportion," he said. "You've let your fear govern you to the point that you'll make yourself sick if you go on like this."

"They're gonna think I'm stuck-up," Leslie blurted out unexpectedly. "They probably saw me in the paper last week, and I bet they're going to decide I think I'm some kind of big shot or something and look down my nose at them all…" She let her words trail off, staring out the windshield. "Those two girls on the plane weekend before last…all the rest will be just like them, I just know it. They didn't believe me. Why should anyone else?"

That did it. Roarke pulled the car over to the roadside and parked, then turned to face her, exasperation etched into his features. "Leslie Susan Hamilton, I think I have heard more than enough of your self-pity. You have no way of knowing what your classmates will be like. I can guarantee you that if you continue to view yourself as a victim, your belief that they won't like you will come true—a classic self-fulfilling prophecy. You've said on several occasions that you hope to have friends, but I've begun to wonder if that's true. If it is, then why do you persist in asserting that the worst will happen?"

Dumbfounded and ashamed all at once, Leslie stared at him. For the first time since her arrival, Roarke saw tears standing in her eyes, but she didn't let them fall. "I didn't think about it like that," she finally murmured, reddening even as she spoke.

"I can see that," Roarke observed dryly, then softened his voice. "Leslie, believe me, cliché though it is, it's still true: just be yourself, and you'll have friends. Don't be afraid to make friendly overtures. Do that, and I promise you that by the end of the school day today, you'll have at least one new friend." He smiled. "Dry your eyes now, and let's get on with the day. You'll feel better once you've been placed into a class and gotten to know some people."

The junior-high-school building was located just west of the island's one real town of Amberville, and the place was already bustling. It took about fifteen minutes for Roarke to explain who Leslie was and how she'd come to be here, and to hand over the school transcripts that had arrived in the mail late the previous week. The school secretary and principal welcomed her to the island, as so many had, and the secretary added that she had seen the article in the newspaper. "I'm sorry for your loss, Leslie," she said. "But you couldn't be in better hands than with Mr. Roarke."

Roarke chuckled. "I appreciate the sentiment," he said humorously, "even though I'm sure Leslie herself hasn't quite decided whether she agrees with you." The adults all laughed, and Leslie turned red, feeling caught out. "She is in the eighth grade, and will turn fourteen in early May. Her records seem to indicate that she is a good student, so she should have no trouble fitting in academically."

"So I see," the principal agreed. "Leslie, we'll put you in Miss Apokua's homeroom as soon as we get you a schedule." He looked up and shook hands with Roarke. "And we promise to deliver her safely home at the end of the day."

"I know she'll be fine," Roarke said. "Leslie, remember what I told you, and have a good day. Tattoo and I will expect to hear about it when you come home."

"I hope it's good news," Leslie said. "See you this afternoon, Mr. Roarke." With that, Roarke departed; about ten minutes later Leslie had a schedule and was following the secretary down the hallway towards her new homeroom.

"Miss Apokua will probably assign one of your classmates to help you get the lay of the land," the secretary told Leslie. "But it's not too hard to get around—all the rooms are numbered, and just remember two things. One, the seventh-grade classes are all on the first floor and the eighth-grade classes on the second; and two, seventh-grade teachers are in charge of eighth-grade homerooms and vice versa. That's why we're down here, since Miss Apokua actually teaches seventh-grade math. Here we are." She opened a door and ushered Leslie in ahead of her, going directly to a desk behind which sat a pretty Polynesian woman in her late twenties or so.

"Good morning, Miss Soo," the teacher said and focused on Leslie. "A new student?"

The secretary nodded. "This is Leslie Hamilton," she said, and Leslie saw recognition dawn on the teacher's face.

"Aha, yes, Mr. Roarke's new ward! I'm very glad to have you in my homeroom, Leslie. My name is Karen Apokua, and I hope you'll come to like our school." Leslie smiled faintly, still awash in nerves. She could hear the buzz of chatter in the room, since she and the secretary had naturally attracted everyone's interest when they'd entered. Unable to resist her curiosity, scared though she was, she darted a hesitant glance across the rows of student desks, wondering where she would sit and who would be her neighbors.

The secretary handed Miss Apokua Leslie's schedule, exchanged a few more words with her and left the room. Miss Apokua looked over the page, nodded a couple of times, then focused on Leslie. "Well, let's get the worst part over with," she said with a conspiratorial grin, and Leslie grinned back, with the feeling that the teacher understood what she must be feeling at the moment.

Rising, Miss Apokua called, "Quiet, please, class." Most of the chatter died down, and she nodded. "That's better. We have a new student starting with us today. This is Leslie Hamilton; she just moved to Fantasy Island about a week ago. I hope you'll all make her feel at home here."

"Hey, isn't she that girl that's living with Mr. Roarke?" demanded a voice from the back of the room somewhere.

"I saw her in the newspaper last week," volunteered someone else, and a babble of general consensus welled up. Leslie could feel heat rushing into her face and wished only for a nice hole to jump in, preferably one with a cover she could pull over her head.

"Class," Miss Apokua said warningly, and again the voices subsided. "I think most, if not all of us, already know Leslie's story, so there's no need to go through it all again. She's going to need someone to help her navigate the building since it's her very first day here…so let's see. Michiko, would you be willing?"

Leslie followed Miss Apokua's gaze and found herself looking at a petite Japanese girl with shiny, inky-black waist-length hair. "Of course, Miss Apokua," the girl said and smiled warmly at Leslie. "The desk behind me is empty—she could sit there."

"Thank you," Miss Apokua said. "Leslie, your guide will be Michiko Tokita; she'll help you with all the ins and outs. Let me get you the textbooks you'll need."

Leslie edged down the third row from the door and slid into the desk behind Michiko Tokita, who promptly turned around in her own seat and leaned over the back of the chair. "You're probably going to hear this an awful lot today, but I saw the newspaper article too. The thing is, I knew about you even before that, and this is why." She indicated the girl who sat in the second row right next to her; like most of the other kids sitting nearby, the girl in question had twisted around in her seat to stare at Leslie. When Leslie focused on her, she recognized her immediately.

"You were on the plane with me that day," she said.

The other girl blushed and nodded. "Yup, afraid so," she said, raking her hand through her short black Dorothy Hamill wedge cut. "My name's Myeko Sensei. I'm sorry I didn't believe you…but, well…I mean, you have to consider who Mr. Roarke is." She stopped, sighed and grinned sheepishly. "This is coming out all wrong. D'you think maybe we could start over and be friends?"

Leslie nodded eagerly. "That'd be great."

"Poor Myeko," Michiko said teasingly. "Still not blessed with tact, are you?" Myeko rolled her eyes and grinned. "Anyway, Leslie, you can eat with us at lunch and meet the rest of our crowd, such as it is. There are just two more of us besides me and Myeko, but they're in a different homeroom." The bell sounded, and there was a general scramble for the door. Leslie sat up in alarm, but both Michiko and Myeko stayed seated, and Michiko shook her head reassuringly. "Don't worry, we'll both wait till Miss Apokua's got your books."

Leslie relaxed a little and smiled gratefully. "I have to tell you something," she said shyly. "I was scared to death all weekend that my first day of school would be a complete disaster and everybody'd hate me. I'm glad it didn't turn out that way."

Michiko studied her. "Why would everybody hate you, Leslie? After that article came out, there was a lot of talk about you, and most of us think it's a real shame that you came to the island the way you did. I know you must really miss your parents."

"Just my mother," Leslie murmured, almost too low for them to hear. "I do, yeah, but it's still hard for me to talk about. I felt like I was living through it all over again when that reporter asked me how I came here."

"Wow," said Myeko, eyes wide. She darted a sudden look at Michiko. "Hey, maybe we shouldn't introduce her to Camille. You know how she is…and what she said."

Michiko frowned at her. "That's Camille's problem, not Leslie's. Oh, here come your books. Let's go so we're not late."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- February 24, 1979

At lunchtime Leslie followed Michiko and Myeko down to the basement, where the school's cafeteria and library were located, and to a table where two other girls already sat waiting for them. Leslie was surprised to see numerous round tables that seated six at a maximum, rather than the long bench-style industrial cafeteria tables she was accustomed to from her previous schools. Of course, the student body here was smaller, she reflected, putting her books down on an empty chair.

"New kid?" asked one of the girls. She had slightly wavy, glossy brown hair and a cream-colored complexion, and eyed Leslie curiously.

"Yup," said Myeko. "Lauren McCormick, meet Leslie Hamilton. And that," she added pointedly, gesturing at the other girl—an Asian with black braids, whom Leslie recognized now— "is Camille Ichino. I guess you'll remember her from the plane too."

"Hi, Leslie," Lauren McCormick said cheerfully. "So you're gonna be hanging out with us, huh? Sounds cool to me. I saw that article about you in the newspaper last week. Actually, I don't usually read the paper, since we don't get it at my house, but Camille here brought it over and carried on for awhile about how she and Myeko were the very first ones on Fantasy Island to meet you." She glanced at Camille with an odd expression. "By the way, Camille's my cousin."

"Oh," said Leslie inanely, wondering what that must be like. "How neat to have a cousin the same age as you."

"Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't," Lauren said and shrugged. "We'll hold the table for you. Go get some lunch, you guys."

In the line, Myeko snorted. "That sounds just like Camille," she said. "Bragging about having met you, when I know perfectly well what she really did."

Leslie reddened. "It doesn't matter now," she said, wishing they could just get past the whole subject. "How were you supposed to know I was really going to live with Mr. Roarke? Let's talk about something else."

In a few minutes they were back at the table, where Lauren, Michiko and Myeko proceeded to get better acquainted with Leslie. Camille, Leslie noticed, was mostly silent throughout the meal, but now and then she caught the other girl watching her. Each time, Camille would look instantly away and take another bite of her lunch.

"So what's it really like to live with Mr. Roarke?" Myeko finally asked the inevitable question. "Is he telling you all the secrets of his powers and stuff?"

Leslie nearly swallowed a bite the wrong way. "No," she said, astonished, when she'd managed to avoid having a major coughing fit. "I'm not in on all the tricks of his trade or anything. He did tell me I could help out a little with the fantasies, maybe, but I haven't done that yet. And he told me I had to stay out of the cellar—nobody goes down there except Mr. Roarke himself, because that's where he mixes up his potions. But that's all." She thought to go on for a moment, then decided against it. How she wished for someone to confide in; but everything and everyone was still too new to her.

"Whoa," Lauren said and grinned. "An off-limits area already, huh? But really, you don't get to do anything to help him out? Gosh, if it was me, I'd be begging for a chance to look behind the scenes."

"Well, I did a little," Leslie said with a shrug. "Tattoo took me with him last week on some of his errands. It wasn't anything magical, but I don't see why Mr. Roarke would trust me with anything magical anyway, when I'm brand-new."

"Oh, give him time," Michiko said. "You know, he used to have something called guest assistants. My older sister Kayoko was one for a few years. You had to be at least eleven and no older than fifteen, and all you really did was accompany guests back and forth between their bungalows and the main house, and bring breakfast sometimes. But Mr. Roarke kind of phased that out toward the end of the sixties or so. I'm not sure why, but anyway, Kayoko loved doing it. She said she got to meet all kinds of interesting people that way."

"You think maybe he'll bring that back?" Lauren asked. "You could be the very first one, Leslie. Put in a good word for the rest of us if he does, and we could do it too." The girls all laughed, except for Camille.

Lauren gave her cousin another look and sighed, as if put-upon. "So, Camille, how's Aunt Katie doing? Is she still throwing up all the time?"

"Like clockwork," Camille said, coming to life now that the attention seemed to be focused on her. "Those babies can't get here soon enough for her."

Leslie studied her in surprise and asked with interest, "Is your mom having twins?"

"Twins, nothing," Camille scoffed. "It's gonna be quadruplets. First set ever born on Fantasy Island." She smiled smugly. "There'll probably be a real media circus when they get here." She sat back and folded her arms over her chest, eyeing Leslie as much as if to say, _You aren't the only special one around here!_

"Let me know if there are any cute reporters when that media circus does show up," Myeko suggested, evoking more laughter. "Cripes, as if enough crazy stuff doesn't already happen on this island, now there'll be quadruplets. I swear, it's gotta be something in the water. Either that, or Mr. Roarke's influence stretches farther than we thought."

"I'm sure Mr. Roarke didn't get my aunt pregnant," Lauren said, desert-dry in tone, which made the other girls break into half-screeching laughter. Leslie, though amused herself, noticed that the noise was attracting attention and tried to slouch just enough to escape attention but not for it to be noticed by her new friends.

"Geez, Lauren, I didn't mean that," Myeko exclaimed, giggling. "It's just that there's so much magic on this island, it must be floating around in the air. I don't know. Hey, that reminds me of something. Leslie, does it really cost fifty grand to have your fantasy granted? That's what I always heard. I couldn't make fifty grand in ten years."

Leslie, startled, sat up straight again. "Well, I don't know," she said, hitching one shoulder self-consciously. "Mr. Roarke hasn't exactly told me that either."

"What difference does it make how much it costs?" Camille broke in. "She got her fantasy for free anyway—getting to come and live here, and not just that but living with the most powerful person on the island. Think you're something special that you can take advantage of riding on Mr. Roarke's coattails?"

The other girls looked embarrassed and alarmed, and Lauren made a production out of elbowing her cousin hard in the ribs. But Leslie, already under more than her share of emotional stress, had finally been pushed beyond endurance and leaned forward to glare at Camille. "Hey, you know, you could come and live with Mr. Roarke too if you don't mind watching your family die and everything you own turn to ashes. Would you enjoy watching your own father throw gasoline all over your house so he could set it on fire? Because that's what my rotten excuse for a father did. He wanted to kill my mother and my sisters and me, and the only reason I'm here is because the air conditioner threw a spark and caught him in the trap he was trying to set for us, while I was outside hiding in a tree so he wouldn't see me. You really think you know the whole story, Camille Ichino? Well, if that's what you were trying to find out, congratulations—now you know!" She shoved back her chair, grabbed her books and fled the cafeteria, desperately hoping there was a girls' bathroom nearby so she could hide in a stall and try to recover her composure.

She left behind an unusually silent lunchroom; other than the girls at her table, no one had overheard her diatribe, but she had been recognized by most of the students on her mad dash out. While the buzz of conversation gradually rose around them again, Myeko, Lauren and Michiko glared at a stunned Camille, Michiko with tears in her eyes.

"Proud of yourself, cousin?" Lauren asked acidly.

"That was really cruel, Camille, even for you," Michiko said accusingly, her voice shaking slightly. "Sometimes I don't know why we keep on being your friends. Myeko, will you come with me and try to find Leslie?" Myeko nodded silently; both girls gathered their things and stacked their trays along with Leslie's abandoned one to return through the window to the kitchen.

"There are times when I'd like to disown you myself," Lauren observed, mimicking their actions. "See you around, Camille."

Fortunately, there was a girls' room just down the hall from the cafeteria entrance, and Leslie burst in and shut herself in a stall, sagging against the wall and staring into space with burning eyes. Of all the people to whom she could have told the full story, it had to be that awful Camille Ichino! And suppose her new friends decided Camille was right and she had a few too many privileges because she lived with Mr. Roarke? What if they really did believe she was stuck-up?…

"Leslie?" a voice called out just then. "Are you in here?"

Jolted back to reality, she hesitated, wondering if she should answer; but then footsteps came in, and another voice said, "Someone's in that stall. Leslie, is it you?"

"I recognize her shoes," still another voice announced. "Come on, Leslie, it's just us. Don't pay any attention to Camille. She's got problems of her own and likes to take it out on other people. Come on out, okay?"

Leslie finally eased out of the stall, glancing at Michiko, Lauren and Myeko each in turn. "I didn't mean to cause a scene," she murmured, abashed.

"She deserved it," Lauren said stridently. "My cousin can be really horrible sometimes, and frankly I'm glad you told her off. Just one thing—please, whatever you do, don't think I'm like her just because we're cousins."

Leslie smiled a little, and Michiko giggled. "No, Lauren's one of the good guys," she added, bringing forth grins on all their faces, even Leslie's now. "Good, you're starting to look better now. Listen, I have an idea. Is Mr. Roarke supposed to pick you up, or do you have to take the bus home?"

"I think Mr. Roarke's picking me up," Leslie said. "How come?"

"When he comes, ask him if you can come with us to Myeko's. We've been meeting at her house every Monday this whole school year, because we have a history teacher who likes to give his students the week's biggest homework assignment for Monday, and we work on it together so we can help each other out. You'll probably start getting those assignments too, so why not get in on the support group?"

Leslie laughed at Michiko's phrasing. "It sounds like fun. Sure, I'll ask him when he comes to get me." The bell rang at that point, and she looked toward the ceiling in alarm. "Am I making us late for our next class?"

"No, we've got time to get there," Lauren assured her. "Come on, though, we better hurry. We have two flights of stairs to run up."

‡ ‡ ‡

Roarke did indeed come to get Leslie at the end of the school day, and was very pleased to see that she was standing with three other girls near the school office. "Well, so I see you do indeed have some new friends!"

Leslie grinned sheepishly. "You were right, Mr. Roarke. I've been invited to Myeko's house to do homework with her and the other girls. Is it all right if I go?"

"Of course," Roarke said. "In fact, I'll take you there myself. Now, do I know you three?" This prompted introductions; Myeko, usually so outgoing, became surprisingly bashful, which netted her a good bit of teasing from Michiko and Lauren. Roarke followed their directions and let Leslie and the other girls off in front of a split-level house located on a cul-de-sac in a tiny, predominantly Japanese bedroom community that had been dubbed Tokoyama. At four-thirty, he returned to pick up Leslie, who with her new friends' help had completed not only her first history homework but also assignments in English and math.

Roarke and Tattoo were both gratified to hear her cheerful chatter about her school day over dinner, which this time they ate in the dining room. Tattoo headed for his own small cottage after the meal, and Roarke went about filing some paperwork while Leslie sat on one of the chairs beneath the shuttered windows and read a book she had checked out of the school library that afternoon. She went without argument when her bedtime arrived at ten, and Roarke watched her go, heartened to know that she was finally beginning to settle in. Having new friends would undoubtedly speed that process.

At some indeterminate hour in the dead of night, Roarke found himself awake for no reason he could immediately discern. Had he heard something, perhaps? He waited quietly, but there was only the usual chorus of tropical night noises.

But he sensed something wasn't right all the same. Without hesitation he left his own room, paused at Leslie's door, which stood ajar to allow the night breeze to circulate, and looked in on her. Sure enough, she was dreaming restlessly, whimpering in her sleep now and then. As he was debating waking her, she suddenly broke out of the dream on her own and lifted her head with an alarmed expression on her face.

"Leslie, are you all right?" Roarke asked softly.

She whipped her head around and gawked at him for just one second before blowing out a gusty sigh. "Oh…hi, Mr. Roarke. I hope I didn't wake you up."

"No, I merely wanted to be certain you were sleeping all right," he said. "You appeared to be dreaming quite actively."

Leslie started to reply, then checked herself, frowning in surprise. "I guess I was," she finally said, "but I don't remember what I was dreaming about."

Roarke regarded her for a moment, then nodded. "Are you all right otherwise?"

"I think so," Leslie said shyly, then smiled at him. "Thanks for coming, though."

He chuckled at that. "Not at all. Good night, then." She responded in kind and he retreated to his own room, but not without a sense of misgiving.  
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_More stories of Leslie's first months on the island will be coming soon…_


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